Had To
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: TF2k7: An unnamed mechanism's terrified flight through Iacon, on the eve of war.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: TF2K7 (Transformers 2007 movie-verse)

**Characters**: Original cast. Unnamed mechanism (sounds like suspiciously like Makeshift.)

**Warnings**: Violence.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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_Too late, too late, can't get away, not going fast enough, no, no, no, got to run, got to get away, got to, got to…_

Brief, bright flares of light and sound tore his world, followed swiftly by rumbles that quaked the very ground beneath his feet. Engines shrieking, a thin, reedy whistle as more explosives were dropped, ripping wide the buckled and blackened surface, their impact leaving gaping chasms like slack mouths; treacherous lips torn and ragged and billowing smoke. Bodies. Everywhere, they gleamed and glittered and beseeched, reaching out with trembling hands as he went racing by, uncaring of their suffering.

Another seismic shudder broke his stride, and a sudden bloom of heat rose behind him, the wind from it reeking of charcoal and burnt metal. The force of the explosion hit him like a harsh backhand, launching him up and away. The jagged face of his home rose to meet him, hard and hot and painful. He struck once, bounced high and went rolling helplessly along, disoriented by the blast. Something in his side split and ruptured, spilling precious fuels down his body in a blue wave. Fumbling, he pawed at the gushing liquid, and moaned in belated agony.

His fire-blackened fingers scrabbled at the surrounding rubble, seeking purchase to drag himself up by. Drunkenly, he managed his footing once more, staggering forward and falling against the bracing edge of a collapsed building. He clutched to it desperately, crying out with pain and terror, and, oh no, no, not like this, not now.

He had to run, _had to_.

One faltering step; another. More. He was gaining speed, but still too slow, too uncoordinated. _Need go faster, go farther, can't stay here_. It was fire and pain behind him, and he didn't look back. Look back, go back, and it would be over. There was nothing back there, no matter what he heard. Nothing.

Distantly, he heard the screams of the slow and the compassionate, those found by their unexpected enemy. He had seen them, before, mechanisms encumbered with wounded and dying, desperately to save their doomed fellows in meaningless self-sacrifice. They hadn't a chance against the traitors, easily torn apart by rending claws and powerful weapons, the strong – in vain – striving to save the weak. It was futile; they were dead as soon as they paused long enough to stare. _Don't look back. Look back and you're lost_.

Grimacing, he took the corner hard, avoiding the danger of the open street in favor of broken rubble and the twisted remains of a building. A keening wail echoed about him, eerie, and closer than the whistle of bombs, than the flagging shrieks of the dying. Too close. It would attract the enemy, if it didn't stop.

Him?

Yes. Screaming. He was screaming. Had he been this whole time?

_Have to be quiet, have to hide_.

Tripping over the uneven terrain, he slowed, cutting off his own piercing, continuous shriek as the one-time protectors finished off the stragglers. There was a moment, a precious moment of calm and silence, and he thought himself either mad or rendered deaf by the barrage of sound. But then the rumble began anew, further away, and the muted screams began again.

He tried not think about how glad he was _they_ that cried out in terror, and not him.

Another sort of screech punctuated the dull throb of explosions, the sound of jets taking to the air, to scout out the stragglers of the 'evacuation'. Undoubtedly, searchers were on the ground, sweeping the streets for any survivors.

Hide. He had to hide or they would find him.

He whirled about, a desperate flick of optics sweeping around the darkness, the gloom punctuated by the sultry dance of orange and blue from the gaps of the walls, indicating another bomb dropped, more lives cast away. A rumble. Stillness. More cries breaking the quiet. A grateful sob that the slaughter was moving away.

_There_. A body – recently terminated, legs partially crushed by a fallen pillar, still trapped in its death throes.

With abandon, he ripped into the corpse, pulling it away from its crevice, sidling his own body beneath it, behind it, and twisting his arms and legs about to match its tortured pose. Liberally, he doused himself with its otherwise useless life's fluids, a thin, hysterical laugh gurgling out of his vocalizer. He would be safe here. Surely, surely he would be safe. Powering down his optics, his systems dragged down to the last dredges, and he trembled in the dark, waiting. Cold. Alone. Hiding.

A long time, unmoving in the gloom, lying beneath the cadaver, listening to the roar and crackle of the outside world, and the slow drip of cooling liquid striking the ground. He was running low on energy, and so tired; too many injuries, and too much fear, and he never once had looked back.

Powering down, off-lining to save his energy. To save himself. Had to.

Processors lagging. So tired. Had to run. Couldn't look back, couldn't go back.

… Had to run…

… _had_ to…

_Coward_.


End file.
